When Popularity Becomes A Slightly Gorey Burden...

Oh, the drama of my life. I went back to hospital last Monday, by which time my chest was simply a green pus factory, got there at 10 sharp, had my obs done. Oh dear. A slight temperature. Now, it's a well known fact among the haemogoblin free that hospitals are reluctant to give blood to those who have temperatures. Not to worry though, the nurses say, a doctor will come to review you soon and you'll have your delicious wonderblood in a minute. 5 hours, one plate of sushi, three deaths on Zelda and infinite bordom later, a chubby doctor comes and 'reviews' me. He was lucky he didn't leave with my ds stylus in his eye. I mean, I don't mind waiting an hour or two to see a doctor, but when I've been watching them all gassing in the nurses station all day while I sit here like a twat... I hate complaining because I know how lucky I am to get medical care at all, but here I sit, sobbing slightly in the day ward of a developed country's hospital feeling like I'd be better off with the witch doctors of Papua New Guinea...

Anyway, with that trauma over things began to improve. They decided to admit me. That evening, low and behold, I got one of my bags of blood. Scrumptious blood, only four days late. They said I'd get the next bag in the morning, but by the time they got round to hooking me up the bag of blood had expired... Helpful. So, just one bag of blood for Sleepystanze. Better than nothing, I suppose. Or a slap round the face. Or a slap round any body part, unless kinky. And even then I'm banned from getting too kinky by the doctors... Ahem.

The doctors came round. Epic Jenny and the new slightly ditzy quite nice chubby guy. I was formally introduced to him as "The Mad Scientist with the Pi Tattoo". Discussions regarding my hickman line followed. They wanted to give me antibiotics to clear the infection, I pointed out the poiuntlessness of keeping it in, seeing as Yusef was going to take it out anyway. And then a decision was made. It was coming OUT. FINALLY. HAPPYSTANZE. My dangly bits were being removed, and I couldn't be jollier. I could look forward to such luxuries as rolling over in bed and not rolling over into uncomfy plastic, weaing tight clothes without random lumps and not making my gran faint whenever she sees my chest. Woohoo.

BUT. The operation wasn't without excitement, complications and drama. It was done by a heavily tattooed trainee surgeon being overseen by a deaf Eastern European one... I must say, combined they did a very good job. However, the downsides of popularity became apparent during the operation. My hickman line was well and truely stuck. It just couldn't bear to leave me (At this point I would like to say that hickman lines do have emotions and the real reason they couldn't get it out certainly wasn't because all the infected tissue was stuck to it...). It ended up taking over twice as long as it should've, and with me FINALLY GETTING MYSELF A MASSIVE SCAR cause they had to hack out so much of my neck. One of the nurses even joked that it was "Turning into neck surgery"... Yeah, I am awake here, remember?...

Being awake in surgery is very odd. Local anaesthetic is very odd. You can hear them cutting your flesh with scissors, but not feel it. You can feel them tugging at your veins, but no pain. You know exactly where they're sewing, but you barely feel a thing. Well, sometimes it hurts, but only when there isn't enough anaesthetic. Then they jab you with a massive needle and all is better. Mmm, needles. And then it was over. All sewn up, I have a scar of two or three inches halfway between my boob and neck. :) :) :)

I'm at home now. I don't feel too bad. Sleepy. I lost that much blood in the operation that it just balanced out with that bag of blood, so back to square one really. I also have an impressive collection of no less than 6 ulcers. And I can barely walk, which is irritating to say the least. How can I go to the library/run around naked/buy stamps/buy ds games/visit Oxford/ do absolutely anything apart from sit in this bloody armchair if I can't get more than 15m without a sit down? It's getting rather frustrating. I have beauty to radiate, physics to do, revenge to obtain. And I'm stuck here... Christ, the world had better be ready for when I'm better...

Speaking of getting better, the sad news is that I shall not be returning to Magdalen College Oxford this Trinity term. Yet again, this darned cancer prevents me. Now we are hoping for Michaelmas. Cross all your fingers, toes and other such deformities folks...

I hate snow. I love Jessica Fletcher. Just some simple facts for you there.

Mother is trying to make me eat something for tea. My stomach remains an angry raging monster who cannot be appeased by any food. I'd make Cheryl Cole look fat at the minute. Ideal? Christ no. This modern teenage girl thing about being stick thin seems absurd to me... I can't wait until I can stuff down a meat feast with cheesy bites and get my big fat arse back... Oh, how I love to dream. It's all I can do these days. Soon me and my glorious rump shall be on a train, lost somewhere in Eastern Europe... Life and stuff rules. I don't understand why everyone's so depressed. We have Le Roule, we have Bathwater and we have our own beautiful qualities... World's a funny place I suppose. Taught from a young world that nothing is ever enough... Capitalism. I'd like to choke it a thousand time over.

Well, I shall be quiet now, this blog post is longer than War and Peace and Cancer Ward put together (I should really read a novel not written by a Russian)... Toodlepip for now.

Hospital tomorow, let's see what joy it brings...

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